


Hufflepuffs Are Awesome

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Fluff, Hogwarts Shenanigans, Hufflepuff Derek Hale, Humor, Misunderstandings, Multi, POV Derek Hale, Slice of Life, Slytherin Stiles Stilinski, seriously so much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 01:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4159866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My fierce firecracker,” Stiles gasps out, between laughs, “my precious little shortfuse.” </p><p>“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says, his voice muffled as he hides his face in his hands. </p><p>“Captain Aggro, defending my honour,” Stiles chokes out, heaving himself upright. “My champion of love.” </p><p>“If you don’t shut up,” Derek warns him, “this bed is going to be your only companion for the next month.” </p><p> </p><p>Or the one where Derek and Stiles are in Hogwarts, and there are shenanigans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hufflepuffs Are Awesome

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Dani, a precious little firecracker who deserves all the things for completing college <3 
> 
> Just as a quick side-note, Derek is sixteen, and Stiles is almost sixteen. There is no squicky stuff. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

Derek is one of the last people off of the train. It’s on purpose - it’s his sixth year at Hogwarts, and with every passing term he’s reminded that he’s going to have to leave soon, leave it all behind. He tries to savour as much of it as he can, even if it’s just the plush red seats of the Hogwarts Express, or the kind smile from the witch that pushes the trolley, or even the usual sneering appearance of Jackson. 

Derek steps down onto the platform, his trunk banging against his ankles. He winces, thankful for his werewolf healing as the pain subsides quickly, and then he breathes in the scent of home. The platform is alive with excited chatter, students milling around, heaving luggage and pet carriers onto the waiting trolleys, ready for the Prefects to take up to the castle. 

Danny steps out after Derek, claps him on the shoulder, and disappears into the crowd. Derek likes Danny, and Danny’s compartment had been relatively empty, quiet enough for Derek to curl up with his latest book. Still, as nice as Danny is, Derek would much rather have spent the train ride with someone else, someone who was conspicuously absent for the entire train journey. Derek waves awkwardly at Danny’s back and looks around. He spots a horrified-looking second year, warily steps around two students that are evidently fused at the mouth, and accidentally steps on Kira’s toes. 

“Derek!” Kira bounces up and down eagerly on her toes, and then stops abruptly, wincing. Derek steps back, about to apologise, but Kira shakes her head vehemently. 

“No need to say sorry, I didn’t see you there either.” Kira smiles, her expression bright and genuine. Summer has been good to her; her hair is longer, soft and shiny, and her eyes are wide and happy. “I’m not sure how, though, because you’ve gotten really big. Not in a bad way, like big big, just, you know, more muscled. How was your summer?” Her eyes flick to something just over Derek’s left shoulder, and her grin widens. “Actually, I think I’ll ask you in a minute.” 

Derek hears thundering footsteps, laughs loudly when Stiles barrels into him from the side, a warm, solid weight that clings to him. He drops his trunk to the ground, grinning, and wraps his arms around Stiles, whose hands are holding Derek’s shirt in a vice-like grip. Derek takes a deep breath in, buries his face in Stiles’ hair, which is a few inches longer than Derek remembers. He’s a little overwhelmed at the sight and feel of his best friend in his arms, especially after a summer of just owling each other. 

Derek would be quite happy to stay there forever and Stiles shows no inclination of moving either, although Derek can feel his fingers trembling against his shirt. It’s Scott who breaks them apart, colliding with Derek’s back with enough force to send them careening forward into Kira, who yelps and backs away. Scott wraps his long arms around every bit of them that he can reach and shouts happily in Derek’s ear. 

“I missed you guys!” Scott finally releases them, bounding forward eagerly to kiss Kira on the cheek. Kira grins and blushes, her face lighting up, and Derek shares a look with Stiles as Scott’s expression melts lovingly. Or at least, Derek tries to share a look with Stiles, but the other boy is busy fiddling with the buttons on his cloak, his gaze darting anxiously all over the platform. 

Derek frowns. “Have you lost someone?” His arms feel empty without Stiles in them, but it would probably be strange to tug Stiles back in, even if Kira and Scott are too busy talking to notice. 

Stiles glances up, eyes wide. For a minute, he seems to freeze, his eyes locked on Derek, and then his gaze darts away again. “No! No, of course not. I was just, you know - carriages!” 

He says it loudly enough that Scott tears his eyes away from Kira, eyebrows raised in concern. “Are they leaving already?” 

Stiles falters, shrugs, and then claps his hands loudly. “So! How was everyone’s summer?” 

“I was just about to ask Derek that when you guys came along,” Kira says, leaning down to grab his bags. Scott beats her to it, scooping up her trunk and owl cage. Her owl, Bartholomew, gives an indignant hoot as Scott swings him carefully towards one of the trolleys. “And Scott and I spent our summer with you, Stiles. We basically saw you every other day.” 

“Ah, but what about the days in between, huh?” Stiles winks, and a grin slides onto his face. He starts walking backwards along the platform, and the rest of them trail after him as if magnetised. “Who knows what kind of shenanigans you guys got up to when I wasn’t there to supervise you?” 

Derek snorts, heaving his trunk onto a nearby trolley. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘encourage’.” 

Stiles turns his grin on Derek, and Derek can’t breathe all of a sudden. It’s like all the air in his lungs vanishes, gets caught, trapped in place by a bright, beautiful smile. “We’re not doing a crossword here, buddy.” 

“You don’t do the crossword, I do.” Derek jogs a little to catch up to him, gives him a wry look. “You fill in my answers with rude words.” 

“What are you, twelve?” Stiles says, nudging him in the shoulder. “Rude words, who even says ‘rude’ anymore. Are they impolite, too, Derek? Mean, nasty crossword answers, offending your delicate eyes, defiling your poor newspaper.” 

He cuts off when Derek shoves him, lightly, but only to laugh. Derek loves the way that Stiles laughs, his head tipped back, mouth wide, unapologetically happy. 

“What did you eat on the train?” Derek shakes his head, grinning reluctantly. ”You know you’re not supposed to have fizzing whizzbees. They make you even more hyperactive.” 

“They’re just too delicious, I can’t resist. Plus, Scott always gets this look on his face, like he wants to chase them, and I can’t help but find that hilarious, Derek, so no judgement please.” 

Scott chooses that moment to charge through the middle of them both. Derek hadn’t realised how close he was to Stiles until suddenly he isn’t there anymore. They always seem to gravitate towards each other. “I found Allison!” Scott yells, and drags Kira towards the figure up ahead, leaning against one of the carriages. 

Derek glances over to Stiles, to find the other boy already looking at him, staring, drinking him in. Something in Stiles’ eyes makes Derek’s stomach flip. Stiles smiles shakily when Derek gives him a quizzical look. 

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks, voice low as they trudge towards the rest of the group. “You’re being much stranger than usual. Did something happen this summer?" Stiles opens his mouth, presumably to tell Derek why he’s been acting so weird and jumpy, but Allison gives a taxicab whistle and waves, beckoning them over. The moment is gone, turned flat, and Stiles murmurs, “Tell you later,” before speeding off towards the carriage. He hugs Allison, and then clambers inside. 

Derek blinks after him, and then sighs, feeling a little wrong-footed. He’s been looking forward to seeing Stiles for an entire summer, the boy who had elbowed his way into Derek’s life and made himself at home, despite being in the year below and in a completely different house. Derek just feels right around Stiles, feels better when he’s there.  
Allison gives him a warm smile as he reaches her, pats him on the cheek with one gloved hand. She has a blue beanie on, which goes well with her Ravenclaw robes and her dark hair tickles Derek’s face as she hugs him. 

The carriage is full of chatter, happy laughter, and for some reason, a loud cheer when Derek and Allison climb in. Derek’s stopped trying to understand the minds of his friends, who are all equally strange. There’s a spot left next to Kira, which Allison takes, and Stiles pats the small space beside him when Derek looks around. Scott is busy trying to blow the biggest bubble he can with a packet of Droobles, Kira is staring at a hole in her shoes with a dismayed expression, and Stiles grins when Derek crams himself in next to him. 

Derek breathes in the scents of his friends, his family, and his pack away from home. He listens to the sound of Stiles breathing, feels the warmth from where their thighs are pressed together, and smiles as the Carriage sails into the darkness. 

*

After the Welcoming Feast, which was interesting to say the least, Derek breaks away from the mass of students heading to their dormitories to follow Stiles out of the Great Hall. He corners him near the doors in the Entrance Hall. Stiles yelps when Derek grabs his shoulder and yanks him around, careful to keep his werewolf strength under control. Derek smirks as Stiles’ arms pinwheel, ducks out of range of Stiles’s waving hands. 

“I think you lost something,” Derek says, holding up a folded piece of parchment. 

“Neat spell, huh?” Stiles grins, his fingers brushing Derek’s as he takes back the paper airplane, the one that had spent the majority of the Headmaster’s speech dive-bombing into the side of Derek’s head. 

“You know what makes it even better?” Stiles gives him a shit-eating grin. “No one else could see it but you.” 

Derek stops, gobsmacked. “Does that mean every time I hit it out of the way, I just looked like a complete lunatic?” 

“Basically.” Stiles smirks. “Yeah, pretty much.” 

Derek adjusts his reading glasses, which he’d only taken out to read the apparently invisible notes that Stiles kept sending his way, and thinks for a few seconds. Then, he shakes his wand out of his sleeve with the kind of deadly, thoughtful calm that makes Stiles freeze. 

“You’re never going to keep that Prefect badge if you keep casting curses on innocent fifth years,” Stiles warns him, both of his palms held out in mock surrender. Derek rolls his eyes, loops an arm around Stiles’ neck and tugs him forward. 

“Watch your back,” Derek warns him, poking Stiles in the cheek with his wand. “I’ll be after it.” 

Up close, he can see the flush that spreads clearly across Stiles’ pale, smooth skin, and it makes him grin inexplicably. 

“You’re such an ass,” Stiles says, pushing him away. “I don’t know why I put up with you.” 

Before Derek can respond, the door to the Entrance Hall swings open a little, and Scott pokes his head in the gap. “Oi, you two, come on. The others are waiting! We’ve got a tradition to uphold.” 

The tradition, as Scott puts it, is a night-time stroll across the long wooden bridge that leads to the grounds, and then sprinting back to the Common Rooms just before curfew ends. It’s not much of a tradition, but in the dark, surrounded by friends and full of excitement for the year ahead, it feels as if nothing could ever be better. 

Outside, Kira loops her arm through Derek’s and chatters happily in his ear. The group trail across the courtyard, Danny and Lydia and Jackson gossiping over the new first years and professors, Allison chasing Scott and Stiles around the broken stone pillars. Derek hones in on Stiles, as usual, who’s swinging back on forth on a pillar, wicked smile in place as he teases Scott. 

“So, is this the year, then?” Kira says in his ear, squeezing his arm to get his attention. Derek turns his head to look at her, puzzled. “Is this the year you two are going to make it official?” 

The tips of Derek’s ears feel conspicuously warm, but Kira’s smile is warm and curious, not at all teasing. 

It was possible, that one night last year, Kira and Derek may have collapsed on the floor of the Hufflepuff common room, light-headed and giggling, surrounded by empty butterbeer bottles. It was also possible that Derek had spilled all of his feelings that night, told Kira how much he adored Stiles, even the irritating parts of him, the parts that wound him up, his quirks and his smile and his face and his everything. 

It was even more possible that Derek had spent the rest of the evening with his face smushed against the carpet, muttering miserably about how Stiles would never love him back, never want to be with him in that way whilst Kira consoled him and hiccupped her way to unconsciousness. 

“You promised not to talk about that,” Derek hisses, nudging her with his hip. 

“I know,” Kira says apologetically, patting his arm. “But it’s been a whole year, and you still look at him with big puppy dog eyes every time he so much as moves. If anything, I think your feelings have only gotten stronger.” 

Derek doesn’t say anything, and Kira nudges him in the hip again, content to let him stew on that while they make their way across the bridge. 

The group reaches the other side, and Derek leans up against the wooden railing as the last of the stars fade slowly into view, reflected in the still surface of the black lake. It’s quiet, and a bit cool, and Stiles makes his way over to join him, smiling warmly with a nervous edge. He’s twisting his fingers in the sleeves of his robes, and Derek frowns a little, concerned. 

“The rest of them are going back.” Stiles jerks his head behind him, and when Derek looks over, sure enough, Scott and Kira are waving as they head back. The other four are already far gone. Derek’s not even sure they made it all the way over to the end of the bridge. 

“So much for tradition,” Derek says lazily, making no effort to move. Stiles grins shakily, and comes to lean against the railing too, facing the lake. Derek twists around to watch him, brow furrowed. 

“Are you alright?” Derek places a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles is warm, even through his robes , and Derek lets his hand linger. 

“Of course I’m alright, why wouldn’t I be alright?” Stiles blabbers nervously.” I’m fine. Good - perfect, even! Shit.” 

Derek moves a little bit closer, his heart clenching as Stiles’ face falls. “Stiles? What is it?” 

“Shit, Derek I can’t do this.” 

Derek feels his stomach drop, worry curling in his chest. “Do what?” he murmurs, trying to be soothing, when all he wants to do is pull Stiles close and shake him until he gets an answer. “I knew something was wrong, but you don’t have to tell me if you can’t. I want you to, though.” 

Stiles takes a deep, steadying breath, and turns to face Derek properly. His face is a lot paler than usual, and he looks nervous, but also determined. “I’m not fine, I mean, I am fine, as in, I’m not dying or anything, so you can wipe the look of anguish off your face. I just, I spent this whole summer at my Dad’s, back home, and I saw everyone, okay, I saw Scott and Allison, Kira even came over a couple of times. I had a blast, yeah? We went to loads of movies and did a barbeque, that’s like where you cook food out on a garden stove, with coals underne-.”

Derek cuts over him, places both hands on his shoulders. “I know what a damn barbeque is, Stiles, just tell me what’s wrong.”

“The whole time, even when I was having fun, even when I was laughing or messing around, there was just this big hole in my chest where I was missing you. And I know that’s ridiculously cheesy, and I’m fifteen and yadda yadda but, everything just seemed dull without you. I’m not sure why, but this summer was just- it was just kind of unbearable without you there.”

Derek feels his mouth drop open in shock. His hands are still curled around Stiles’ shoulders, unmoving, and he feels rooted to the spot. He couldn’t move if someone aimed a curse at him. Except apparently he can, because Stiles is whispering, “Fuck it,” and throwing himself forward. 

Derek wants to be able to say he was smooth, tell people that he swept Stiles off his feet, crushed him to him and kissed him until the other boy saw stars. 

In reality, this is only Derek’s second kiss, and it’s probably Stiles’ first, and he’s so shocked from Stiles’s confession that he just stands there, stunned. 

His mouth is still hanging open, so Stiles kisses his bottom lip clumsily, but fiercely, fingers trembling on the nape of Derek’s neck. Derek feels it when Stiles exhales shakily, and he doesn’t know when, but his eyes have slipped closed. 

Stiles pulls away marginally, and Derek opens his eyes, drinks in Stiles’ face, his nervous expression. 

“So,” Stiles begins, his voice cracking, “I’m guessing from the lack of participation that I read this wrong? 

Derek takes his hands away from Stiles’ shoulders, and Stiles’ face falls, until Derek places them carefully on his waist, fingers bunching in the fabric of his robes. Derek shakes his head. 

“You just startled me, that’s all.” His voice is a lot rougher than usual. He shakes his head again, and they’re so close that their noses brush. “I never thought I could have this, never thought you’d want me back.” 

Stiles laughs, somewhat more high-pitched than usual and says, “Derek, I’ve been following you around with puppy dog eyes for about five years now, and if I’d known you before Hogwarts, it would have been even longer.” 

“Well, according to Kira, it’s obvious to even a dead man that I adore you, so who’s the oblivious one here?” Derek blushes even as he admits it, but Stiles lights up, his smile full of warmth and glee and awe. 

Derek clears his throat awkwardly, fumbling for a second. “Do you want to try that kiss again?” 

Stiles laughs. “You’re supposed to be the smooth, suave older man, you know that right?” 

“I’m only a year older than you,” Derek wrinkles his nose, “And Laura says I’m as smooth as chunky peanut butter.” 

Stiles leans forward so that he can laugh against Derek’s lips, and Derek kisses him properly this time, sweet and careful and incredulous. He doesn’t take it any further, because this is enough for now, and Stiles must think so too, because he links their hands together and grins as they walk back to the castle, the stars their only audience. 

It doesn’t hit Derek until later, after he’s collapsed on his bed, fully clothed, too pleasantly drained to bother with changing. He can still feel Stiles’ lips ghosting over his own, the press of their hands together, and the feeling makes his heart lurch. It doesn’t hit Derek until then, the fact that he has Stiles, properly has him, and that Stiles has Derek, too. 

He falls asleep with a smile on his face. 

*

Stiles slides onto the bench next to Derek and steals a piece of toast right off of Derek’s plate, never mind the fact that Derek has already taken a bite out of it, never mind the fact that there’s an entire platter piled high with hot toast situated a mere six inches from Stiles’ elbow. Stiles munches on the toast, smirk in place, and then swallows with a grimace. 

“How can you eat this dry? It’s like chewing cardboard. I’m not saying you have to slather it in jam, but at least put some butter on it dude.” 

Derek gives him a look that’s almost as dry as the toast, and folds his newspaper in half. As usual, the Daily Prophet is full of pictures of the Potter Weasley clan, theories on James Potter’s Quidditch career, speculations on whether Albus will follow in his father’s footsteps, and nothing pertaining to actual news. “If you’re going to sit there and make fun of my breakfast, then maybe you should get your own for once.” 

Derek doesn’t actually mind. Stiles does this every morning, rushing through the doors to the Great Hall twenty minutes before breakfast ends, his tie undone and his hair a mess, and makes a beeline for Derek. If Derek has porridge, Stiles takes a spoonful of it before gagging, and pours half a pot of sugar on top. If Derek decides on bacon and eggs, to spice things up a bit, then Stiles undoubtedly will literally spice it up with liberal amounts of pepper and sauce. It’s a common occurrence, and Derek wouldn’t know what to do without it. 

Stiles sniffs, mock indignant, and drags a jug of milk across the table towards him. Derek is a little worried that Stiles might try and drink straight out of the jug, because honestly, he’s seen Stiles do a lot of weird things, and this wouldn’t even make the top ten. He hums in relief as he pours it into a bowl instead. Derek gives him a disgusted look over the rim of his glasses, but passes the box of cereal over anyway. 

Stiles makes a cooing sound, and reaches over to push Derek’s glasses up his nose. Derek flushes, not quite used to the attention yet. They’ve only been dating for a week or so, and every touch or moment with Stiles feels intimate enough to take his breath away. Stiles coos again, strokes a thumb teasingly over the blush on Derek’s cheek. 

“You look so cute when you’re flustered,” Stiles tells him, grinning playfully. 

“I’m not flustered,” Derek denies firmly, flicking Stiles’ fingers away. Stiles grabs his hands mid-flick and laces their fingers together. Derek blushes harder, feeling warm all over, but carries on. “I’m not. This is a look of disgust.” 

“I disgust you?” Stiles asks, placing their joined hands on his thigh. 

“Your eating habits disgust me,” Derek says, resolutely trying to keep his cool as Stiles strokes his thumb along Derek’s wrist. “Who puts cereal in the bowl after milk?” 

“You put marmite on your mashed potatoes. You’ve got no room to talk.”

“And yet here I am, talking,” Derek says dryly, unfolding his newspaper again. It might not be interesting, or even worthy of the title of newspaper, but at least there’s a puzzle page. It’s difficult to work it open with one hand, but Derek doesn’t want to let go of Stiles’s hand, so he manages. 

“Have you got a quill?” he asks Stiles, readjusting his glasses again as he examines today’s crossword. Stiles hums noncommittally, and Derek is about to sigh when something brushes the back of his neck lightly. He shudders instead, and turns his head to give Stiles a resentful look. 

Stiles grins unapologetically, flicks the feathered end of the quill over Derek’s neck, down his cheekbone, and bops him on the nose with it. Derek snatches it out of his hand, scowling, and then scoops up the ink pot that Stiles slides his way. 

“Now you’re flustered,” Stiles says teasingly, and a little wonderingly. Derek gives him an amused look. Stiles still has trouble believing that Derek is even a little affected by him, and it always seems to boost his confidence when he realises that yes, actually, Derek does still like him, does still want him. 

“I’m not flustered, this is a look of hate." Derek grins, scribbling in an answer on his crossword. Stiles squawks, squeezes Derek’s hand in reproach, and then there’s a pause. It makes Derek wary, but he continues to read the next clue. 

“You don’t hate me, you adore me,” Stiles whispers, leaning in close to Derek’s ear. 

Derek turns his head slowly, catches Stiles’ lips with his own, and whispers against his mouth, “Only when you’re not being a dick, which is ninety-nine percent of the time.”

Stiles gapes at him, eyes half-mast and cheeks warm. 

“Now you’re flustered.” Derek wants to laugh at Stiles’ expression, but he’s also sort of relieved. He’s known for a while the kind of effect Stiles has on him, but it’s always gratifying to know that it’s mutual. 

“It’s too early for this,” Danny says. 

Derek and Stiles both jump, and ink splatters across Derek’s crossword. Stiles drops his spoon, and milk splashes over the side of the bowl. Danny is glaring at them both over his copy of the Quibbler, a cup of coffee stirring itself next to him. 

“Sorry, Danny, I didn’t know you were there,” Derek says, and then winces. He gives Danny an apologetic smile, fidgets a little as he pushes his glasses up. Danny’s face does something strange, melting and turning red. He stutters, and then disappears behind his magazine. 

Derek blinks, confused. His whole arm is shaking. He turns to see Stiles trying desperately to hold in laughter, his shoulders heaving, and making their joined arms quake. 

“Why are you laughing?” he hisses, but Stiles doesn’t answer, too busy cramming another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. He’s still laughing, and Derek hears Danny make an aggrieved noise before the other boy stands abruptly, heads swiftly away from the table. 

“What just happened?” Derek demands. Stiles takes one look at his face and collapses against the table, narrowly missing his breakfast as he chokes on laughter. 

“Danny- Danny has a crush on you,” Stiles wheezes eventually. Derek stares at him, nonplussed. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Derek states. Stiles straightens up, still grinning, and fixes Derek with a look. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he says firmly. “Ridiculously smart and hot and cute. The ‘funny’ thing could use some work, but I’ve got some tips, if you want.” 

Derek snorts, drags Stiles upright as the warning bell rings. “The day I take tips from you is the day I wear pink and dance on top of the table to Rihanna.”

Stiles mock-gasps, scooping his bag up off the floor. “You know who Rihanna is? Ladies and gentlemen, take note, a miracle has occurred!” 

Derek trips Stiles on the way to class, forgetting about their clasped hands and Stiles’s surprisingly strong grip. They end up in a tangled heap just outside of the Great Hall. It’s just an average, ordinary day with Stiles at his side. 

*

Derek is curled up in the armchair nearest to the fire. It’s his favourite chair, the soft cushioned one with a pattern of yellow snitches. The fire crackles merrily as he flips a page of his book, which is propped up on his knees. It’s a new book- Percy Jackson, which Derek had liberated from Cora’s bedroom before he left for Hogwarts. It’s good, funny, if in a slightly childish way, but littered with moments that Derek can appreciate. 

He’s just beginning a new chapter when Stiles stumbles through the door to the common room. Derek looks up, blinking owlishly over the rim of his glasses, which have slipped down his nose. Stiles is red-cheeked from the cold and windswept, his hair sticking up in tufts. He looks tired, and Derek watches fondly as he staggers into a side-table. A few fourth years look up, amused, then back down at their chessboard, thoroughly used to Stiles’ presence in the Hufflepuff Common Room.

Stiles makes his way towards him, and Derek feels warm all over as Stiles collapses in Derek’s chair, leaning on Derek’s legs. Derek shifts around a bit to give Stiles more room, folding a corner over in his book to mark his place. Stiles leans his head back to smile tiredly at him. 

“Good practice?” Derek asks softly. 

“Long," Stiles says around a yawn. “I still don’t know why Jackson makes me practice. I’m only a reserve seeker, s’not like anyone’s gonna drop dead in the middle of play, is it?”

Derek laughs, takes one hand away from his book to card it through Stiles’s hair. Stiles hums happily. Derek still marvels at the fact that he can do that now, can put his hands on Stiles without fear of rebuke or bemusement. Not that Stiles used to push him away, Stiles has always been tactile, but now Derek has the freedom to brush his fingers against Stiles’ smile, and Stiles will welcome it. 

He does it now, moves his hands from Stiles’ hair to trace the line of his mouth. Stiles’s eyes, which had fluttered closed under Derek’s ministrations, open slowly. He smiles, big and warm and sleepy, and Derek’s stomach lurches. 

“Read to me,” Stiles demands around another yawn. 

Derek snorts. “Bossy.” 

“You love it.” 

Derek does. 

*

Derek sprints towards the Hospital Wing and bursts through the double doors with a large bang, disturbing the peaceful quiet. He skids to a halt, his school shoes sliding alone the smooth floor, and looks wildly around for Stiles. 

“Derek, you big drama queen, I’m over here.” 

Derek whips round so quickly that his tie smacks him in the face. He bats it away, readjusts his glasses, and squints at the figure lounging about on one of Madam Pomfrey’s pristine beds. Stiles grins back. 

“I’m not dead, Derek,” Stiles tells him, still grinning. Derek narrows his eyes- he doesn’t see anything funny about this situation. 

“Scott told me you got hit by a curse.” Derek marches towards his boyfriend, who shakes his head, sighing dramatically. 

“I got hit by a tiny, miniscule curse. Some asshole who thinks Slytherin’s need to crawl back into whichever hole they were born in.”

Derek runs his hands over Stiles’ shoulders, tilts his chin and traces the lines of his face, searching for injuries. There don’t seem to be any, but Madam Pomfrey is an efficient, no-nonsense sort of person who probably healed Stiles up the second he walked through the doors. He could have been brought into the Hospital Wing in splinters and Derek would have no way of knowing. 

“I know exactly who it was,” Derek mutters angrily, still examining Stiles’s face. 

Stiles pauses in the middle of a familiar rant about the discrimination of Houses, and the stupidity of segregation via qualities, and frowns up at Derek. “Why are you talking in the past tense?” Stiles asks slowly, as if he’s wary of the answer. “Did you kill him?”

Derek’s face turns a deep, dark red. “I didn’t kill him,” he argues weakly. 

“Yeah, that wasn’t very convincing, dude. Try again, with a little bit more feeling this time.” Derek can see Stiles’s mouth twitch, and he knows this is going to end in embarrassment on his part. 

“I went to talk to him, you know, ask him what the hell he thought he was doing.” Derek sighs, looks at the ceiling. It’s very white, clean. Very interesting. “I had a speech planned out, and I was going to dock him fifty points for fighting.” 

“Oh yeah?” Stiles says lightly, humour colouring his tone. “How’d that work out for you?”

Derek doesn’t want to answer. 

“I broke his nose.” 

There’s a pause, and Derek stares determinedly at the ceiling. 

“You broke his nose,” Stiles repeats slowly. “You broke his nose.”

Derek sighs miserably. “I broke his nose.” 

It takes maybe three seconds in total before Stiles erupts with laughter. Derek sighs harshly through his nose as Stiles collapses back against the bed, clutching his stomach. He doesn’t even make any noise, just shakes with breathless humour. 

Derek ignores him, talks over the little snorting noises that Stiles makes when he laughs too much. 

“I managed half of my speech,” Derek says indignantly. Then he deflates. “But he started talking about how you deserved it, how you were probably evil and twisted inside.” Derek pauses to glare at his boyfriend. “He was right, you’re definitely evil, although I don’t think that’s your House’s fault.” 

“My fierce firecracker,” Stiles gasps out, between laughs. “My precious little shortfuse.” 

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says, his voice muffled as he hides his face in his hands. 

“Captain Aggro, defending my honour,” Stiles chokes out, heaving himself upright. “My champion of love.” 

“If you don’t shut up,” Derek warns him, “then this bed is going to be your only companion for the next month.” 

“As if you’d ever hurt me.” Stiles is grinning at him cheekily, hair all mussed and cheeks red from laughing. Derek opens his mouth to defend himself, but nothing comes out. There’s a beautiful boy smiling at him, his idiotic best friend, and he can’t find it in him to start an argument, even a teasing one. 

“As if,” Derek murmurs. He watches Stiles duck his head, the toe of one sneaker scraping along the floor as he swings his legs. Stiles doesn’t do well with compliments, or sweet nothings, or heart-felt words. He blushes and splutters, mumbles something back sometimes, in the quiet that always rests between them. There’s one such moment now, just the gentle sounds of them breathing, the rustle of the sheets as Stiles taps his fingers against them. 

“I still can’t believe you broke his nose,” Stiles says suddenly, and his laughter starts small, but Derek joins in this time. 

*

In the weeks leading up to Christmas, snow begins to fall. The sky turns grey, like a canvas stripped of colour, and the grounds are covered in fresh, powdery snow each morning. The castle is decorated overnight, with the help of all the prefects. Derek steals a few sprigs of mistletoe from the boxes in the staff room, where the teachers doled out chores, and hid them in his room. 

Stiles grins and calls him a sap when Derek produces them one evening from his cloak. He kisses him anyway, and jumps happily onto Derek’s back when Derek asks him to Hogsmeade this weekend, crowing loudly. 

The days inch by slowly, but eventually the weekend arrives. Derek spends a half hour in front of his dormitory mirror, dragging his fingers through his hair. Danny lounges in the bed behind him, sniffling unhappily. 

“This is the worst possible time for you to catch a cold, you realise that?” Scott says offhandedly, shrugging on his leather jacket. He looks smart, in fitted jeans and an olive green t-shirt. Derek bought the jacket for him as a Christmas present, and Stiles had howled with laughter when Scott had opened it. It was brown, not black like Derek’s. 

Danny grumbles something incoherently, pulling his sheets up over his face. Derek hides a grin, which fades on its own when he turns back to the mirror and sees the state of his hair. 

“I should have known you were gay just by the amount of hair product you use.” 

Derek shoots a glare at Danny, but he can’t stay angry at his friend when the other boy looks like death warmed up. He’s surrounded by crumpled tissues and there’s a steaming mug of something lemony and sweet on the cabinet beside him. 

“That’s a stereotype,” Derek says mildly. “You’re the one always complaining about how people have to stereotype the gay community.” 

Danny makes a noncommittal noise, and emerges from the sheets with a disgruntled look on his grey face. He looks Derek up and down, and then rolls out of bed, advancing on him. Scott’s watching from the corner of the room, one hand trailing his wand over a stain on his jacket, vanishing it. 

“What are you doing?” Derek asks nervously, as Danny grabs his shoulder and wheels him around. 

“Fixing your hair.”

Scott snorts, stands up and waves at them both. “I have to go and meet Kira.” 

“I thought he was meeting Allison,” Derek says, frowning a little. Danny shakes his head, moves his wand up to the hair around Derek’s ears. Derek can feel the hair there smooth out and flatten, sticking to his skin. 

“No, he and Allison are officially no longer a couple,” Danny informs him, pausing his ministrations so that he can cough up a lung. Derek looks at him with concern, but Danny waves it away, turning his wand to Derek’s shirt. Derek watches as the shirt flickers between green and black, before settling on cerulean blue. 

“There,” Danny says decisively, nodding his head. “You won’t break any mirrors. Just hearts.”

“Thanks,” Derek grins. Danny’s cheeks flush slightly, and Derek gives him a worried look. “Your fever looks like it’s coming back. You should go and lie down,” he suggests gently. Danny makes a faint noise, and turns around abruptly, marching towards his bed. Derek watches him collapse face-first on the bed, and shakes his head fondly. 

“I’ll bring you back something sweet,” Derek promises, backing out of the dormitory, and shuts the door on the strange noise that Danny makes. 

When he turns around, Stiles is right there. 

“Hey,” Derek says, surprise making his voice high. “I thought I was picking you up.” 

Stiles looks a bit off, somehow, his face contorted a little into an expression that looks mildly painful. 

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, his alarm growing when Stiles’ face twists even more. 

“Something sweet?” he splutters. Derek knows instantly that there’s something wrong; Stiles moving is a normal Stiles - he throws his arms out when he’s talking, or when he’s passionate about something. When he gets angry, he gets quiet and small, his body a map of tense planes and angles. It doesn’t make his anger any less explosive. 

“What?” Derek says, confused. 

“You,” Stiles says firmly, narrowing his eyes. “Just now, you promised to bring back something sweet.” He practically spits the words out, and Derek jerks back. 

“Danny’s ill,” Derek explains slowly, watching Stiles glare grow more intense. He can’t work out why. “He’s got a fever, and he helped me get ready for our date, so I said I’d bring him back some sweets. Unless, we’re not going to Honeydukes?” 

Stiles glare softens, and he pulls a face. “Sorry. When you said something sweet, I thought you were, like, flirting or something?” A dull red flush creeps up Stiles’s neck, and Derek has to cough to hide his grin. 

“And since I mentioned that Danny had a crush, I’m just realising I clued you into the fact that one of the hottest guys we know wants to jump your bones.” Stiles pulls a face. “Like, I’d rather you didn’t recognise the fact that you have options, not in a creepy, you-will-remain-with-me-forever kind of way. Although, yeah, okay, a little bit like that but-.”

Derek sees no other option than to kiss Stiles silent. It doesn’t work at first- Stiles mumbles against Derek’s mouth for several seconds before he makes a noise of surprise. Derek tilts his chin, angles their faces with soft, coaxing hands until their mouths slant against each other. He keeps it soft, sweet, puts as much reassurance as he can into the kiss. 

Derek feels bad about Danny. He and Danny aren’t ridiculously close, although now that he thinks about it, that might be Danny’s doing more than his own. It’s been obvious to literally everyone in their friendship group that Stiles and Derek have been working up to this for years, and Derek suspects that Danny’s kept him at arm’s length for this exact reason, so as not to get too attached. He feels bad about it, because he suspects that no matter how young they might be, Stiles is it for Derek. There’s no room for Danny in Derek’s life, as anything more than a friend. There’s no room for anyone else in the space that Stiles fills. There never will be. 

He tells Stiles this. “There will never be room for anyone else in my life, in the space that you fill.” 

Maybe it’s a bit much. Maybe it’s a bit unexpected. Stiles’ eyes widen, his cheeks heat up, and he steps forward, poking Derek in the chest. For once, it seems Stiles is at a loss for words. 

“Well,” Stiles says after a moment, his voice hoarse. “Okay then. Uh, same. Ditto, in fact.” 

 

Things go wrong in Hogsmeade. 

They shouldn’t, that’s the thing that irks Derek the most. He fixed the Danny debacle, and when they slipped into Honeydukes, Derek made sure to buy three times as many sweets for Stiles as he did for Danny. They walked down to the village hand in hand, adjusting each other’s scarves and hats as an excuse to brush skin against skin. They drank a few butterbeers in The Three Broomsticks, curled up in the warmth, watching the snow drift down outside. 

Overall, it’s been a pretty fantastic date. 

Which is why it’s all the more frustrating when things go wrong. 

Derek pulls himself upright, and blinks around, somewhat dazed. His entire back is soaked from the snow he landed in, and there’s a bright point of pain in his chest where the spell hit him. He can feel his eyes glow yellow, and his teeth are sharper, snagging on his bottom lip. 

“Fucking Gryffindors,” he snarls, and forces himself into a standing position. The pain is already receding, and he wills away the rage that threatens to wash over him. He sways a little, presses the heels of his hands into his closed eyes, and then shakes himself, looking around for Stiles. 

“You’re an arrogant bastard,” Stiles spits, from five feet in front of him. It’s not aimed at Derek, but he still flinches back at the anger in his tone. Then he realises who Stiles’ wand is aimed at, and he marches forward, looping his hand through Stiles’ arm to pull him back. 

Stiles staggers, blinking in confusion as Derek drags him to stand at his side, and gently pushes his wand hand down. At this point, Stiles’s face is mutinous, and the Gryffindors that cast the spell are sniggering into their hands. Derek knows their type, has dealt with them multiple times before - arrogant fourth years and fifth years, still learning, still new to the world. Just because Derek is older doesn’t make them afraid of him, and the fact that he’s a werewolf just makes them braver, and angrier. 

“Ignore them,” Derek says clearly. Stiles splutters, snaps his wand hand back up.

“They hexed you,” he snaps angrily. “You hit the ground so hard that I’m pretty sure you broke a rib. I’m not just going to stand here whilst they laugh about the fact that they just hexed the Head Boy.” 

“That’s not why they hexed me,” Derek tells him calmly, even though Stiles knows this. 

“I know that,” Stiles snarls, wrenching his arm away from Derek’s hand. 

Before Stiles can cast a curse, or coax the others into a duel, Derek clears his throat. “Twenty points from Gryffindor,” he says, his voice loud and sharp. He reins in his emotions, the funny churning in his stomach, until he gets control of his fangs. He lets his eyes glow, though. 

The leader, a tall, lanky git, by the name of Thomas, opens his mouth to argue, but Derek just raises an eyebrow. He’s glad that his glasses are somewhere in the snow; it doesn’t have quite the same effect from behind lenses, although Stiles usually swears he looks hot still. 

“I can make it fifty,” he reminds them, pulling his jacket so that the Head Boy badge glints in the sun. 

There’s a pause, and then Thomas rolls his eyes, runs a hand through his hair. “Whatever, half-breed.” He stalks off, strutting down the street with his two bodyguards at his back, glancing around angrily every few steps. Derek waits until he can’t see them anymore before he breathes a quiet sigh of relief. He hates confrontation. 

"He called you a half-breed," Stiles states. “You should have let me hit him.”

Derek turns around warily. Stiles isn’t looking at him. His gaze is fixed on the snow. His hands are tight fists at his side. Derek winces, but takes a deep breath. He’s prepared to explain himself. 

“Why the fuck did you do that?” Stiles demands sharply. Derek hates when Stiles swears like that, angrily, not with his usual cheerful undertone. “They’re bastards. You should have fought back, you can’t let them walk all over you like that.” 

Derek takes a deep, calming breath. “I did that, because it’s not worth fighting over it. Yes, they’re bastards. Yes, they called me a half-breed. Yes, it would have been satisfying to hit them with a curse and watch them turn orange or sprout boils, whatever you had in mind.” 

“I was thinking along the lines of something more painful,” Stiles says conversationally, although his voice is tight with an undertone of anger. “For instance, I was going to transfigure one of these sticks into a really big stick, and levitate it right up there ass, how does that sound?” 

Derek sighs. “It sounds creative. But it also would have caused a scene, Stiles.”

Stiles gestures at the lingering crowd of people dithering around them. “Like it didn’t cause a scene when that asshole flung you through the air with just a tiny spell.” 

“Are you calling me weak?” Derek says, gaping. 

“Well, you certainly didn’t fight back, did you? You just let them go.” 

“I deducted points,” Derek grits out, resisting the urge to let his eyes glow. “I kind of enjoy being Head Boy.” 

“Whoop-de-fucking-doo,” Stiles says meanly, and stalks forward. Derek flings his hands up and follows, catching up to his boyfriend easily. 

“What the hell is your problem?” he demands, hissing the words so that his nosy classmates can’t listen in. Stiles is moving quickly now, and the gate to the Castle Grounds looms ever closer. 

“My problem,” Stiles says, exaggerating the word, “Is that you won’t even let me protect you. You couldn’t stand up for yourself, you should have let me do it.” 

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Derek says, confused. 

Stiles stops suddenly, so suddenly that Derek collides with his shoulder. 

“Fine,” Stiles snaps, anger sparking. “Fine, well, if you don’t need me, then I’ll just fuck off then, shall I?”

Derek doesn’t get a chance to reply, because Stiles is running, sprinting actually, through the gate and up the path to the Castle doors. Derek blinks after him, mouth hanging open, too shocked to follow. Flakes of snow begin to fall slowly, settling on Derek’s shoulders and dusting his hair. He feels cold, and confused, and more alone than he has in a while, as he watches Stiles disappear. 

*

For one whole day, Derek mopes. It’s Sunday, so he doesn’t bother going down to breakfast, or getting dressed even. He collapses on his bed and stays there, curled up in soft black sweatpants and a blue hoodie. Danny sleeps in the bed next to him, the same as he has every day for the past six years. Derek feels guilty about it, for some reason, but he hasn’t done anything to feel guilty about. 

That’s just his opinion, though. 

Scott crashes through the dormitory door on Sunday afternoon, and glares at Derek through his fringe. 

“Don’t you dare,” Derek says, before Scott can speak, “tell me that I need to be the one to fix this.” 

Scott gives him a long look, takes in his miserable appearance, his weak glare, and blows out a breath. 

“You need to be the one to fix this,” Scott says, and Derek pulls a pillow over his face, resists the urge to shout into it. 

“I know.” 

 

It’s third period on a Monday when Derek finally sees Stiles. The other boy is coming out of the bathroom on the fourth floor, and Derek is late for Divination, but he doesn’t care. 

He sprints forward, catches hold of Stiles’ arm, and wheels him around. Stiles’s face goes slack with surprise, and then blank. Derek has always been able to read Stiles’ expressions like an open book, but now there’s nothing. It’s like confronting a steel wall. 

“No,” Derek says. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to close off.” 

“I’ll do what I want to,” Stiles retorts loftily. “And right now, I’ll be going to Herbology.” 

He stalks past Derek, chin up, hand clasped tightly over his bag. Derek stands for a second, rooted to the spot, and he’s not entirely sure if he’s hurt or pissed off. It’s probably a healthy mix of both, but for the minute, he focuses on being pissed off. 

Keeping up a leisurely pace, he remains a short distance from Stiles as the other boy exits the castle. There are barely any students milling around- most of them are in class. Derek doesn’t really mind abandoning Divination. He sucks at it, it’s possibly the worst class he’s ever taken, and if it weren’t so late into his options, he would drop it like a hot pocket. 

Derek waits until they’re halfway to Herbology, in the middle of the grounds, before he leans down and scoops up a large handful of snow. He jogs a little to catch up with Stiles, packs the snow into a ball, and hurls it at his stupid boyfriend. 

It lands with a sharp thud against the back of Stiles’s head. Werewolf strength is a fantastic thing, and Stiles actually staggers to the side, dropping his bag. He turns around slowly, an incredulous expression pasted all over his pale, beautiful face. Derek will always find Stiles beautiful, even when Stiles is being a brat. 

“Nice throw,” Stiles says dryly, one hand on the back of his neck. 

Derek shrugs modestly, hands in the pockets of his robes. There’s a foot of space between them, and it’s too much. “I play baseball at home. Plus, you know, the whole werewolf thing.” 

Stiles shakes his sleeve and his wand slides down to his hand. He waves it dramatically in front of him, and six snowballs rise up from the snow, perfectly formed and floating at eye-level. Derek raises an eyebrow. Stiles flicks his wand, and the snowballs streak towards him, so fast that they’re practically blurs. 

Derek ducks, flattening himself against the ground. One grazes the top of his ear, and Derek levers himself upwards. Stiles looks surprised, as if he hadn’t expected Derek to have the forethought to duck, and Derek rolls his eyes. He stands up, takes advantage of Stiles distraction, and launches himself at Stiles. 

Stiles yelps as they crash to the ground, rolling until Stiles is on his back and Derek is leaning over him. Stiles spits snow out of his mouth, glares up at Derek from under his damp hair, which has fallen over his face in a strange fringe. 

“Move,” Stiles commands him, pushing at his shoulders in an attempt to sit up. 

“No,” Derek retorts, and sits on Stiles’s stomach. Stiles makes a noise of protest, tries to shove Derek off. Stiles might not be as weedy as he looks in all his layers, but he’s definitely not as strong as Derek. Derek doesn’t budge, and when Stiles scoops up handfuls of snow, Derek fixes his hands over Stiles’s wrists and pins them to the ground. Stiles huffs, kicks his feet, and averts Derek’s gaze. 

“This is going to look inappropriate if anyone looks over,” Stiles says, eyes on the sky above Derek’s head. 

“Inappropriate would be if I started grinding, which I think I can refrain from doing,” Derek says firmly, “Besides, I don’t care. Apparently this is the only way we’re going to have a proper conversation.”

Stiles flushes red at the mention of grinding, but he resolutely keeps his eyes on anything but Derek. 

Derek sighs, loosens his grip on Stiles’s wrists, but doesn’t let them go. He doesn’t like this awkwardness, the uncomfortableness. They’ve never been anything less than friends, and not talking seems strange, especially now that Derek’s tasted more of this, what they can be together. 

“When I said that I didn’t need you to protect me,” Derek says quietly, ignoring the way that Stiles stiffens. “I didn’t mean it the way you took it.” He shuts his eyes, and just talks, lets the words out as quickly as he can. “I’m not weak. If I make a decision not to fight back, it’s for a reason. I deducted points because, as Head Boy, that’s the approved method of punishment, and I don’t want to lose my position.” 

“As a werewolf,” Derek continues, “I deducted points because they see me as a monster. Greyback might have been killed during the war, but people still look at born werewolves with fear, even now. They think I’m inferior, and dangerous, something to prod and poke until I inevitably lose control.” 

“You would never lose control,” Stiles interrupts, and Derek opens his eyes to see that Stiles has his lips clamped together, as if he didn’t mean to let the words slip out. Derek smiles, slow and warm and grateful. 

“I know that,” Derek says softly. “I’m proud of that fact. I’m not ashamed of being a werewolf. I don’t have anything to prove to them, or anyone.” 

Stiles finally, finally looks at him. His eyes are wide and frustrated. There’s a bit of shame in there too. Derek holds his gaze. 

“I get why you were mad at me, a bit,” Stiles says, eventually. “I wish you’d let me look after you, the way you look after everyone else. But I never really thought you were weak, and I’m sorry I ever said it. I was just pissed, because even after the Danny thing, we had a good day, and then they had to ruin it.” 

Derek nods. He gets it. 

“That’s not why I was mad at you,” Derek murmurs, leaning closer. “I like that you want to protect me. I know you don’t care about me being what I am.” 

“Of course not,” Stiles mumbles, his gaze flicking to Derek’s mouth and away. “But if that’s not why you were mad?” 

“I was mad because you’re so stupidly reckless!” Derek exclaims, half-laughing. He blows out a sigh, grinning reluctantly. “You’re reckless, and you don’t care about getting hurt, not if you’re standing between your friend and someone else’s wand. It scares me, and I get mad when I’m scared.” 

Stiles grins suddenly, wide and bright. “You remember when I fell in the lake last year? You yelled at me the whole time you were dragging me out of the water. It wasn’t even my fault. Scott was the one who cast the jelly-legs curse.” 

“I’ll never forget it,” Derek says dryly. “You’re the bane of my existence,” he adds, and Stiles leans up slowly, kisses him soundly, until everything falls away. 

*

Christmas is Derek’s favourite holiday. Surprisingly, Stiles isn’t too keen, but Derek thinks that has more to do with Stiles’s mother than anything else. Derek had never met Claudia, but he hears Scott talk about her quietly every now and again, and there’s a picture of her next to Stiles’s bed. She looks an awful lot like her son. They have the same smile. 

Normally, Derek spends Christmas with his family. The Hale’s are moderately famous, so there’s normally a Christmas party full of important people. Talia is a genius curse breaker and his Dad spends every spare second in the Ministry, fighting for werewolf rights. Cora’s only young, but she has the makings of a fantastic Healer already, and Laura is infamous in Hogwarts. Her pranks rival those of the Weasley brothers, and Derek wouldn’t be surprised if his sister ended up in a joke store of her own. Either that or in prison, he thinks privately to himself. 

This year, though, Stiles’s Father is on a business trip, and Scott’s Mum is working overtime, so the two boys are staying at the Castle. Derek decides to skip out on the Hale Family Christmas this year. 

Christmas Eve is a quiet affair. There’s a vicious, three-hour long snowball fight in the grounds, and Stiles swears he has freezer burn on his face from where Derek hit him with a snowball. Derek denies all accusations and kisses the red mark on his cheek until the rest of Stiles’s face turns red too. 

They stay up late, sprawled on the Hufflepuff armchairs in front of a crackling fire, eating tree-shaped cookies that the house-elves bring them. 

Derek wakes up early on Christmas Morning to the sound of an Owl pecking against his window. He lurches out of bed, a familiar child-like excitement rushing through him. He fiddles with his glasses as he reads the Christmas letter from his family, and then tucks the letter inside his latest book, Arcadia. 

Stiles finds him an hour later, curled up in the Common Room. The fire is warmth, orange flames leaping about in the grate. He looks up as Stiles stumbles down the stairs, bare-foot and dressed in cotton pants and an oversized grey sweatshirt. He doesn’t look very festive, although there’s a moving image of mistletoe painted on his cheek, courtesy of Scott McCall and his animation spells. He doesn’t look festive, but he does look sweet and soft and tired. 

Stiles tumbles into Derek’s lap and yawns in his face. 

“You’re like a cat,” Derek murmurs, brushing Stiles’s hair out of his eyes. He could do with a hair-cut. 

“Do cats get Christmas presents?” Stiles replies, rubbing sleepily at his eyes. Derek kisses the mistletoe on his cheeks, brushes his fingers down Stiles’s face. 

“They’re under the tree,” Derek says, but makes no move to get up. He could fall asleep here easily. 

Stiles apparently agrees, because he shifts around, curling up on Derek’s lap and tugging them down until they’re lying tangled together on the couch. 

Later, Scott will wake them up by sprinting down the stairs and jumping on Derek’s stomach. Later, Stiles will open Derek’s present, a detailed charcoal drawing of them on the dark bridge, hands barely brushing, moments before their first kiss. It’s one of Derek’s best drawings. Stiles will look at it, and grin, and say “Hey, I think I need a reminder of how that first kiss went,” and Derek will laugh and move towards him, because that’s what he does when it comes to Stiles. 

Now, though, they just hold each other. 

*

“Why the hell did I agree to this?” Stiles says. His face is pressed against an open book, and Derek can barely make out the next sentence, which is mostly just a long string of swear words. Luckily, the library is pretty much empty, and Madam Pince is elsewhere, patrolling the stacks. 

“This is my OWL’s year, Stiles.” Derek tugs at his hair, which is stuck up in odd black tufts. It looks like he’s shoved his finger in a plug socket. “They were handing out revision timetables at breakfast today.” 

“Yeah, but Derek, buddy, light of my life, your exams aren’t until May.” 

Derek isn’t listening. His eyes are glued to the Transfiguration textbook in front of him, on the section about living things. Transfiguration is his worst subject, barring Divination. Derek doesn’t even know why he took Divination; he spends his weekends converting Muggle short stories into extracts for his dream diary. So far, the Professor hasn’t figured it out.

A hand enters Derek’s view. A pale hand with long fingers and bitten nails. It closes his textbook, and drags the book away from him, and Derek looks up. Stiles has a stern look on his face, and he piles up their work in the far corner of their table, reaches across them to grab Derek’s hand. 

“Your exams are not until May,” he says softly, intently. Derek blinks owlishly at him. 

Stiles shakes his head fondly, and bites his lip. “Okay, I’m taking charge here,” Stiles announces. “Your glasses are lopsided, your hair is everywhere, you look like one big giant mess, and as your boyfriend, I am legally obliged to clean you up.” He winks, and Derek flounders, lost for words. 

“How did you manage to make that sound dirty?” he asks, vaguely impressed. 

Stiles waves a dismissive hand. “You can make anything sound dirty if you try hard enough.” He drags Derek upright, and Derek follows, clumsily banging his leg on the table as Stiles leads him deeper into the library. 

“I thought we were leaving the revision,” Derek mumbles, confused. 

Stiles drags him behind a bookcase and pushes him up against it. “I would never deprive you of your education,” he says solemnly, and then proceeds to cast Muffliato under his breath. 

Derek raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Am I supposed to absorb the knowledge in these books through my back?” he asks, tone dry. There’s a corner of a book digging into one of his shoulder blades, but honestly, Stiles has such an intense look on his face that it’s impossible to care about it. Stiles opens his mouth, presumably to say something witty and sarcastic, so Derek takes advantage of the moment to fuse their mouths together. 

They get kicked out of the library eventually, Madam Pince shouting abuse at them down the corridor as they sprint away from her, but it’s worth it. 

*

It’s hot, but the spring air is dry, no sticky, humid weather to ruin the day. Derek sits himself under a young tree, lays half in the shade and half in the sun. The grass is dry, tickling his arms where the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up. Derek doesn’t mind. He’s too content to care. 

There are exams to come, revision to be done, but Derek isn’t bothered today. He has a free period. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and listens to the soft ebb and flow of the black lake, the chirp of birds in the trees behind him, the quiet, distant chatter of milling students enjoying the sun. 

Thoughts flit in and out of his head, but mostly Derek’s head is empty. He’s warm, and sleepy, and relaxed. 

He’s not sure how long he lies there before Stiles’s scent washes over him. Stiles always smells of soap and sweets and books. Sometimes, he smells of rain. Today, he just smells carefree, happy. Derek smiles lazily, listens to the soft footfalls of his friends as they stroll over to join him. Kira and Scott settle somewhere amidst the tree roots, murmuring sweet nothings to each other. He hears Jackson grumble something, and Lydia’s firm retort, and guesses that she’s settled primly in his lap, or suggested revising. He hears Allison’s laugh, and Danny’s low voice, and waits for the tone he knows best. 

It doesn’t come. Instead, a warm, lean figure drapes itself over Derek. Derek smiles as Stiles pillows his head on Derek’s chest. He reaches a hand out blindly, slowly, and runs it through Stiles’s soft, silky hair, thumb grazing his ears and his cheekbones. 

His other hand finds Stiles’s in the grass, and they tangle their fingers together. Stiles hums something under his breath, and Derek almost laughs when he recognises the tune to a drunken song he and Scott made up, once, about really long broomsticks. Stiles squeezes their hands, hums a little louder, and Derek drifts off to sleep, surrounded by friends, and thinking of Stiles and summer. 

 

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> lmao I hope that wasn't too awful
> 
> Leave a comment and a kudos on your way out? 
> 
> Thank you for reading :0)


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